Photograph ©Copyright 2007 by John-Ward Leighton
DANCE ZONE
Dancing to the left of me;
Dancing to the right of me.
Dancing all around me
and I succumb to the beat
and dance on the keyboard
beating out the words to the screen
while the Harleys in the street
set off the car alarms
and the young woman squeal and scream
as if they only had the vocabulary
of wild orgasms.
My own sound track coming from some
machine a long way away
and I turn up the gain and swim in the sound.
My feet beat out futile rhythms on the floor
under my desk while my eyes deal with the typos.
The coffee pause tastes good, god, good,
as the music sweeps the hood
and even the dance challenged white boys
join in the step.
There is no reason to rhyme
it's a total waste of time.
The words are fun
but son of a gun
they don't mean anything
to anyone.
How do you type and clap hands at the same time
it's pretty difficult I opine
as I beat along to the current shinning song.
They repeat the word
as if I hadn't heard
the drum machine keeps the beat
almost sterile and clean
but I can't deny my dancing heart
and I clap hands to be a part.
The sirens ring out in the street
and it's the drunk-tank at the city jail
of those who have fallen in defeat
with their just pissed pants;
too much to drink and not enough dance.
I laugh at their misfortune
how many words rhyme with stupid
perhaps they were in the control of cupid
and in their love stained ways
were getting drunk for other days.
A sip of the good, god, good,
and that's the way it is
down here in the hood.
I pull back from my keyboard
and drum my fingers in time
waiting for the beat to commence
in the poetic
Dance Zone.